


Today Was Bad

by BlaineyDevon



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller, Troy (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlaineyDevon/pseuds/BlaineyDevon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a warrior as mighty as Achilles can be afraid. Sometimes the reminders of those fears shake him to his core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today Was Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime in the middle of the war. It’s my first try at Patrochilles. I had to vent my feels about these two somehow.

One night the war rages on harder and longer than usual. It’s far enough into the war that time has begun to blur, and I am accustomed to my role among the men. A fair amount of them are injured that day, and I am late in returning to our tent. My day was spent patching sword gashes and spear wounds, bringing back to life the men who are on the front lines day after day.

Men who are as brave as Achilles, but not as skilled or strong. I was one of a handful helping to heal them, but the men trusted me as I trusted them, with my life and with the life of Achilles, who needed no protectors but would be fighting an army alone without them.

When they day was done, the skin of my hands and arms and face was darkened beyond its natural tone with the stains of the blood of those men. There seemed so much of it that it would be impossible to wash off. I think of Achilles, as I look at my own hands, who washes the stains of so much blood from his body every night.

The sun has fallen by the time I leave the tent full of wounded men. Most are asleep with the concoctions I made for them, a whisper of thanks on their lips as they drift off to their dreams. Mine is the last face many of these men see for many days, as their eyes will not open again until their wounds have healed. Mine is the last face many of these men will see in their life.

Trudging through the sand, I find my way back to the camp, and there is a commotion. I hear a shout, a worried shout, and I pick up my pace. It is not until I hear my name that I am running, running as fast as my clumsy legs will take me until I break through the crowd to find a raging Achilles, his face red with fury and his eyes frantic. He is searching for me, I can tell.

“Patroclus!” He calls, and then he turns to see me.

I can only imagine what he sees then, to make him weep openly in front of his men. I know I am covered in blood, but do not know to what extent. In my haste to save lives, I did not notice blood seeping into my clothing, or scrapes on my arms and legs from scattered shards of spears or protruding swords. My hair had stiffened with blood from my pushing it back so much with my stained hands.

Achilles look on me with fear through the tears in his eyes, and I go to him, resting a hand on his shoulders. He is still covered in blood from the day as well. His armor is gone, cast aside. He must have been back to the tent for hours.

“Patroclus.” Achilles grabs for me, hands fisted in my tunic as he pulls me close. Then he shoves me, harder than I am used to, into the tent. I stumble backwards, past the flaps of the tent, and fall onto the pallet of our bed. Achilles steps into the tent and kneels beside me, looking me over. I see the tears again.

“Achilles. Are you…?”

“Patroclus.” He says, a half sob. He has always been better at words than me. “You are covered in blood.”

“Not my own,” I tell him. I bring a hand up to cup his jaw, some of the blood from it staining his face. I lean in and press my lips to his, and he sobs in relief. 

I pull back and he looks at me, my blood soaked hair and skin and clothes.

“Today was bad,” I say.

He gives me a single nod before he stands and retrieves a bowl of clean water and a washcloth. He begins to stroke the wet cloth over my hair, and I feel red water rolling down the back of my neck. I close my eyes and for the first time that day, let myself be taken care of. Achilles is gentle as he washes me, the same way I am to him after so many days of battle.

When it comes to my clothes, he takes them off of me. I sit naked as he washes my skin. He kisses my collarbone, my chest, the insides of my thighs. I sigh under his attention, and the sound causes him to look up at me. He kisses a tender cut on my calf, where I tripped earlier that day and a stray spear shallowly pierced my skin.

Soon I am clean and naked, and I return the favor to him. We lay together, and Achilles draws a blanket to drape over our lower halves. He turns to his side and looks at me. I see something in him that I have rarely seen before, but I cannot say what it is at first, until I can.

“You worry,” I say, reaching up to trace the lines in his brow.

“I killed many today,” Achilles admits. “More than usual. When I returned, I heard you were helping, so I decided to rest. I fell asleep. My dreams were…unsettling.”

I kissed him again, for encouragement. I wished to hear more, but would have to wait for him to take his time.

“I dreamt of you, but not in the way I usually do.” He smiled there, and I knew what he spoke of. I returned the smile. “I dreamt of you, surrounded by the enemy. They were slicing at you with swords, cutting just enough to break the skin but not enough to kill. I could hear your screams, as they cut you, watched your blood well and fall. But there was…there was some force between us. I could not get to you. I could not reach you. When I finally broke through, the soldiers were gone. And there was you, and you had bled to death.”

His voice quivers at the end and I move closer to him, so close our bodies are pressed together from chest to toe, so tight no air can get between us.

“And when I awoke,” he continues, “and you were not there, I thought for a moment…”

I silence him with another kiss. I know what he thought, that I was gone. And when I came to him covered in blood, he was forced to face his fear again.

“Do not fear for me,” I whisper to him. “As long as I have you, nothing in this world can touch me. You are my shield, Achilles. Do not fear.”

Achilles nods, as though fighting is as much about protecting me as it is about the honor it brings to his name. He kisses me, our lips pressed together hard. He pushes a hand into my damp hair and holds my head close. When we part, our breath mingles as he refuses to let me go.

“Patroclus,” he whispers.  _Pa-tro-clus_.


End file.
